The non sequitur caught Catherine's full attention. 'What?'
Nick shrugged, and his smile was tiny, without a trace of smirk. 'Lindsey. She's cool. You'll be fine. Let's do our job-maybe I'll even buy you breakfast, after.'
She gave up and smiled at him. 'Maybe I'll even let you.'
They were in a spacious lobby, and even though the building glass was smoked, sunlight flooded in. Four chairs, three sofas and two tables arrayed with trade journals and newsmagazines dotted the long, narrow area inside the door. In the far corner, a wall-mounted counter held neat little towers of styrofoam cups and a coffee pot that filled the room with the fragrance of fresh-brewed Columbian-blend. Catherine knew that this-unlike the sludge back at HQ-would be the first pot of the day.
A high counter, reminiscent of a hotel check-in desk, crossed the opposite end of the room, the receptionist's tall chair empty; on top of the desk rested an appointment book and a telephone system that looked to be capable of launching missiles across continents. The wall behind was replete with various awards from the Nevada Advertising Council, the Southwest Advertising Coalition and two awards Catherine recognized as the Oscars of the ad game, Cleos.
To the left of the reception counter, far off to the side, another uniformed officer stood at the aperture of a hall leading into the warren of offices.
Something was in the air besides that Columbian blend.
The pleasantness of the uniformed man on the front door had been replaced by a chilliness that had nothing to do with air conditioning. Catherine wondered if Nick sensed it, and she glanced at him. He too was frowning.
They moved through the room without touching anything. Though they had been dispatched here, the reason for the call had been obscured behind the 'Unknown Trouble' tag. Sometimes the term mean just that: the nature of the crime was unknown, possibly because the person who called it in had been vague or hysterical, but troubled and insistent enough to get a response.
Other times, a crime was considered sensitive, and the officer on the scene made a decision not to broadcast its nature over the police band.
Was that the case here?
At any rate, as they made their way over to the second uniformed officer, they did their best to not contaminate anything that might later turn out to be evidence.
So much for a cup of that coffee.
'Detective O'Riley's in the conference room at the end of the hall,' the uniform informed them. This officer- Leary, the nametag said-was perhaps five years older than the one posted outside, and he was dour where McDonald had been chipper. Maybe five years on the job was all it took.
Catherine thanked him, and they walked the corridor, which was wide and long and lined with framed print ads; at the end, a set of double doors yawned open.
Along the way, the artwork on the walls depicted some of the company's most successful campaigns. She was familiar with all of them. When they got to what appeared to be the conference room, another hallway peeled off to the right.
Through the open door of the conference room, Catherine could see a large ebony table that consumed most of the space, surrounded by charcoal-colored, high-backed chairs. Nothing was marked off as a crime scene, so neither CSI put on rubber gloves, as they approached. When she ducked in the room, with Nick just behind, Catherine saw, crewcut Sergeant O'Riley standing at the far end, hovering over a blonde woman, seated with her head bowed, the thumb and fingers of her left hand rubbing her forehead.
'Ms. Denard,' O'Riley said, in his gruff second tenor. Whether this was for identification purposes, for the CSIs, or to get the woman's attention, wasn't quite clear.
In any case, the woman jumped a little, looked up at O'Riley, then her eyes tensed as Catherine and Nick entered deeper into the room, moving to O'Riley's side of the massive table.
'It's all right, Ms. Denard,' O'Riley said as he placed one of his hands on her shoulder. 'These people are here to help.'
The woman seemed to relax, thanks to O'Riley's touch and reassurance.
Catherine had come to revise her feelings about O'Riley, over the years; once she had overheard him dismissing the CSIs as 'the nerd squad.' But such adversarial days were long gone.
As usual, the detective's suit looked like he had fallen naked from a plane into a clothing store, only to rise and find himself fully if haphazardly dressed.
'Ms. Denard,' the sergeant said, 'this is Catherine Willows and her partner Nick Stokes from the crime lab.'
The woman started to stand, but O'Riley's friendly hand on her shoulder-coupled with Catherine saying, 'No, no, please, that's all right'-kept her in her seat.
Catherine stuck out her hand and the woman shook it delicately, then repeated the action with Nick as O'Riley said, 'This is Janice Denard-she's Ruben Gold's personal assistant and office manager.'
Ms. Denard didn't seem to know what to say, then she finally settled on, 'Would either of you like a cup of coffee?'
'No, thanks,' Nick said. 'We're fine.' Catherine nodded her assent to Nick's call.
Denard wore a sleeveless black-and-white polka dot dress that showed off slim, tan shoulders, the high collar-which Catherine thought should have shortened the appearance of the woman's throat-instead seeming to elongate it, giving the woman a supple swan neck. A simple silver cross hung on a tiny chain and she wore a slim silver watch on her left wrist, her only other jewelry a silver ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. She was in her early to mid-thirties and beautiful, her wide-set big blue eyes bearing lashes long enough to give Catherine a flash of envy.
'Really,' the woman said, unconvincingly, 'I'm fine-it's no trouble, if you change your mind.'
Moments later, Catherine and Nick had taken seats on either side of Janice Denard, who began, 'I came to work early today.'
'Is that unusual?' Catherine asked.
'No. I do that most days-especially Mondays. I like to have everything up and running…you know, before Mr. Gold comes in.'
'What time is that usually?'
'That Mr. Gold comes in? Just before nine.'
'And what time do you get here?'
'Between seven and seven-thirty most days, but six-thirty on Mondays.'
'And that's when you came in this morning?'
'No. It was more like…six-forty-five. I was running late, because of a traffic accident on Maryland Parkway.'
Nick, who was taking notes, asked, 'Where do you live, Ms. Denard?'
'East end of Charleston Boulevard. There are some houses at the foot of the mountains…?'
'Yes,' Catherine said, thinking,
Nick bulled right in, though his tone was gentle. 'You are Mr. Gold's secretary, I take it?'
Denard bristled. 'Personal assistant to Mr. Gold and office manager. It's an executive position, and I do very well, thank you very much. Not that I see how it pertains to anything.'
Catherine's frustration was very much on her radar now; neither O'Riley nor this woman had as yet indicated what kind of situation they were dealing with, so whether or not something 'pertained' remained as 'unknown' as the 'trouble.'
'No offense,' Nick said, and he shared with the woman the boyish smile that had melted frostier types than Denard. 'But you gotta admit, those are really nice houses.'
Wouldn't you know it, Denard smiled back at Nick, showing lots of white teeth.
'My ex,' Denard said, 'was a divorce lawyer…but not as good as mine, as it turned out.'
Nick gave half a grin and a head nod, and Catherine chuckled politely, thinking,
